


The Gentle Hand

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fellcest - Freeform, Gentle Sex, Kedgeup, Kindness is its own kink, M/M, Spicy Kustard - Freeform, fell-verse bullshit, kustard - Freeform, when you come from the shitty hellverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: The way Edge is posed, arms upraised as if in surrender, makes Red’s hopeful for some unprecedented kinky shit to go down.----In which Sans shows that being a soft touch isn't the limitation Red thinks it is. Based on the SpicyKustard endgame of Nilchance's Ain't this the Life.
Relationships: Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 232





	The Gentle Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [ain't this the life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319578) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 



> If you haven't read Nilchance's 'Ain't this the life' series yet...seriously, what are you doing with your life, go do it now. This ficlet will make much more sense if you do since it vaguely alludes to a couple of specific events/characterisations from there.
> 
> This is a commissioned fic, born from the desire to see the Fellbros getting off on unusually gentle handling. Casual kindness and intimacy seem like a real big deal when they're not the norm in your hell-verse culture.

Sans’s poker face is usually impressive -- impenetrable to even Red’s practiced eye -- unless he wants something. In a depressing way, that says volumes about the way Sans lived his life up until recently, too scared to want, unwilling to put that vulnerability where anyone else can see it, but Red’s not in the kind of cynical mood where he wants to think too long on that. He’s much more interested in seeing what kind of fun outlet he can encourage for that hooded, longing stare. He leans easily into Sans’ space, his grin as sharp as a knife pressing against Sans’ cheekbone.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

Sans doesn’t so much as flinch, which gives Red an unreasonable pang of fondness for him. With their faces closely aligned he’s in a better position to follow Sans’s gaze across the room to where Edge is seated in a chair, squinting over the small print of the book in his hand. Sans let slip that Papyrus was fitted for reading glasses last year that he’s still reluctant to use -- apparently the lack of ears makes balancing them an aggravating chore without the judicious use of tape. With all the cross-universe parallels, odds are good Edge needs them as well, but getting the stubborn bastard to admit it is a teeth-pulling challenge that Red’s brazenly choosing to forgo. Sans will probably handle it for him at some point, and his sweet smiles and warm eye-lights are far better tools for that fight than Red’s gruffly patronising accusations.

Besides, watching Edge trying to ignore the blatantly obvious is entertaining in its own right. It’s not amusement or even concern radiating from Sans right now, though. His sockets are narrowed in thoughtful intensity, the angle of his grin hitched in a promising curl. Red knows that look. It makes a pleasant heat flush all the way down to his toes, warming him all the way through.

“Yeah, he’s a pretty one, ain’t he?” Red says, leering. His voice is pitched only for Sans’s hearing, but Edge is so thoroughly absorbed in his reading he probably wouldn’t notice. He’s a sitting duck, an easy target, a lamb to the slaughter; not that Sansy is the butchering type, but now that Edge is one of those rare things that he’ll admit that he wants, the hunger in his eyes reminds Red of the Dogs back in his own dusty Snowdin. “You gonna go get yourself a piece o’ that?”

Sans breaks off his intense staring game to shoot Red an exasperated eye roll that somehow manages to say both  _ god I hate your shitty dirty talk _ (a lie; Sans actually loves it) and  _ I don’t need your damn help, Red _ (also a lie; Sans is just sitting on his thumbs like an asshole instead of actually making a move like he clearly wants to). The goading does its job, however. Sans rises to his feet, smirking in a way that’s full of smugness and challenge that does all sorts of interesting things to Red’s libido. They’re all lucky he’s not the jealous type, because otherwise he’d feel disappointed not to be the lucky recipient of Sans’s current intentions. Red doesn’t know exactly what they are, but the way he moves is a blatant invitation for Red to watch and find out, which is exactly what he intends to do.

Edge gives a befuddled blink as the book he was holding mere inches from his nasal bone is deftly pushed downward, leaving space for Sans’s beaming skull. “S’up, Edgelord.”

“Hello, Sans,” Edge replies evenly, in the voice of someone who is expecting bullshit but is generously willing to indulge it. Red doesn’t hear that tone very often any more, but Sans’s bullshit is usually a hell of a lot more harmless and easier to clean up after. 

Sans gives his most winsome smile, like butter wouldn’t melt in his clever, carnal mouth. “You got a minute?”

Edge isn’t fooled by that expression, but the way his eyelights soften betrays his weakness to it. He sets his book aside with deliberate precision. “Always for you.”

The light, surprised flush looks good on Sans, but Red can’t resist calling out, “How come you don’t ever sweet talk me like that, Boss?”

“The last person who tried to sweet talk you lost three fingers,” Edge snipes back, but the snark in his tone isn’t up to its usual standard. Red can’t blame him; it’s kind of hard to stay mad with Sans crawling into your lap, all soft and willing. Red’s own retort dries up in his mouth, diverted by how small Sans looks straddling across Edge’s lap, a gift of perfect bones in the shabby wrapping of his worn hoodie and shorts. It’d be so easy to mistake him for helpless, harmless, and the lie of that image gets Red hotter than it has any right to. Edge looks similarly enraptured, his hands reaching out but not quite daring to touch Sans’s hips. 

“What do you need?” Edge asks, and if the words sound all gallant and considerate, the rough husk in his voice is anything but. Heat is building along Red’s pubic symphysis, sensitising the bone where it brushes against the coarse fabric of his shorts. He leans back and nonchalantly adjusts himself, holding off on letting his magic form just yet. He wants to see where this goes first.

Sans hums thoughtfully, catching Edge’s hovering hands. Briefly, their fingers entangle, Sans’s phalanges pale and stark against the deep red of Edge’s gloves. Edge’s hands are much larger, stronger, but he doesn’t resist as Sans cautiously pins them to the back of the chair, leaving them splayed out on either side of his skull. 

“I want to try something,” Sans says, withdrawing his hold, but Edge’s arms stay where they are, aloft and steady. There’s no force keeping them there but Edge’s own self-restraint, which is honestly a more effective bondage than the sissy handcuffs they keep in the drawer upstairs. 

“Of course,” Edge lifts his chin, giving just that little hint of bared throat, although Red wonders if Sans can see the careful tension that’s trying to hide beneath Edge’s open, permissive posture. He’d give Sans anything he asked for, of course, but some things don’t come naturally. His gaze flicks briefly over to Red, cautiously watchful, likely expecting recrimination or jeering for this uncharacteristic show of weakness, but eh. This is Sansy’s show, and if he wants to see Edge all obedient and pliant, well, Red can’t exactly deny that he can see the appeal even if it’s not something he’d ever dare ask for himself. 

At Edge’s compliance, Sans makes a sound, all warm pleasure and approval His mouth brushes against Edge’s jaw, an affectionate nuzzle that eases a thread of the stiffness out of Edge’s spine. The way he turns towards Sans is like a flower seeking sunlight, his guarded expression unfurling, opening up to bask in that radiance. The potential of a kiss between them is so tangible Red can almost taste it himself, but at the last second Sans pulls back, grinning with knowing, mischievous eye-lights as Edge lets out a little huff of amused disappointment. 

“Patience,” Sans tells him, readjusting himself on Edge’s lap in search of a better position for whatever he has in mind. “I haven’t even started yet.”

Edge’s gaze locks with Red across the room, and the two of them share a moment of perfectly understood silent frustration. For someone who hasn’t even started, Sans has both of them wound up just from sheer anticipation, equally enticed and unsettled by the unknown. 

The way Edge is posed, arms upraised as if in surrender, makes Red’s hopeful for some unprecedented kinky shit to go down. Maybe Sans has been thinking about those long gone days when Edge was the one in the collar. Maybe he’s gonna do a little strip-tease in Edge’s lap until the Boss is begging for permission to touch him. Red’s an eager audience of one, a gleeful voyeur with the best seat in the house to enjoy the show.

Despite Red’s impatience -- possibly even because of it -- Sans moves with an unhurried deliberation, starting with a slow and delicate touch across the branches of Edge’s collarbone left exposed by his tank top. Red’s not close enough to see all the little notches and imperfections in the bone, but he knows them so well he can practically feel them under his own fingers. Edge has broken his clavicles twice, once when he was barely out of stripes, and a second time years later in a particularly brutal sparring session with Undyne. He’s got nearly symmetrical scars on each side, thin, raised grooves that have healed over stronger than before. He can see Sans lingering on them, memorising their shape with his phalanges.   


To anyone else, Edge’s expression would seem impassive, or as much as his resting bitch face allows him to be. It would take a Judge’s eye to see the tension around his sockets and the too-perfect straightness of his spine as he tries to keep his instincts under control. Sans’s gentleness is full of unknown potential he doesn’t know how to react to. He’d probably look more relaxed if Sans was holding a knife to his throat instead, which at least would be a more familiar, acceptable threat. 

Even in that scenario, he’d probably be struggling just as much to keep his arousal under control. The soft jeans he wears around the house can’t completely hide the glowing ember of crimson set alight across his pelvis, only inches from where Sans is straddling his femurs. He doesn’t move as Sans shuffles forward, bringing them incrementally closer, but Red can see the way his brother’s eyelights burn brighter, their color verging closer to orange than their usual dark red.

The majority of Red’s experience with Edge’s arousal is from up close and personal experience. He’s usually right in the middle of that conflagration, burning up and going down in flames, too near and too fuck-drunk to see every little nuance and tell of his brother’s expressions. Usually he prefers it that way, desperate for escape from the constant over-analysis and uncomfortable knowledge he gets from the entity riding shot-gun in his skull. Sans is the same; he gets it like no one else ever would, but watching his brother trying to hold himself leashed under Sans’s light touch he comes to a new, intoxicating realisation.

Only he and Sans will ever really see Edge like this. Each subtle quiver and reflexive twitch are signs that only an eye as sharp as the Judge’s can read, and Red’s gaze devours it greedily. It’s like watching the master conductor of a silent orchestra, Sans’s clever fingers coaxing Edge’s body into the contortions of a symphony only Red can hear. Each hitch of aborted sound and muffled click of shuddering bone says more than any amount of wanton moaning, and the crest of Red’s pubis is aching fiercely, scalding hot with the urge to form a more tangible outlet for all the arousal swirling around his pelvic cavity. 

He’s already reaching down to touch himself, sharpened phalanges scraping down his ribs to match the way Sans is starting to caress his way down Edge’s chest. Unintentionally, Red eases off the pressure until it’s a match for Sans’s kinder touch. He mimics the way Sans follows the graceful arch of the fifth and sixth ribs, mapping them through the thin obstruction of Edge’s shirt. His own breath stutters, a match to Edge’s as Sans knowingly finds the seam where true bone transitions to the costal cartilage. Instead of squeezing harder across the softer, more supple surface as he normally would, Red follows Sans’s feather-light touches and nearly chokes on his own breath at how sensitised he feels. 

Sans hasn’t so much as lifted Edge’s shirt, hasn’t even touched him below the waist, but the effect he’s having is profound. Care and softness have never had a place in Edge and Red’s bedroom. Even the handicap of Red’s low HP just means the violence is dealt in precise measures. Edge can take a harder hit, but he’ll only ever endure as much as Red can unleash before he starts to hate himself; another meticulous calculation that Edge has to keep track of along with everything else. 

Sans’s slow exploration doesn’t push against any of their known boundaries, and because of that Edge isn’t being forced to resist, to limit, to quell or subdue. Instead, Red watches him soak it all in with the desperation of a man who’s been dying of thirst trying to swallow down an ocean. He’s drowning in it, getting overwhelmed from such little, careful gestures that have always been so much more than he’s been taught to expect. 

When Sans’s hands come to settle on his illiac crests, Edge jerks slightly, his composure starting to unravel at the seams. He throws a desperate glance at Red -- a look that has more guilt and wariness than Red finds he likes -- but almost immediately his eyes are riveted back on Sans. Red can see the subtle flex of his cervicals as Edge gives a dry swallow, fighting for a control that is surely slipping. 

“Sans,” Edge manages, his voice betraying the slightest catch. His eyelights are blown, bright and swollen in his sockets, the light of them overflowing like there’s too much to be kept inside of him. His hands clench in useless fists, still struggling to stay pinned to the backrest of the chair. Helplessly, his body arches, bucking up ever so slightly against Sans’s superficial weight.

Immediately, Sans’s hands are on him again, cupping Edge’s jaw with sacrilegious tenderness. His hold isn’t hard but it’s steady, bracing Edge’s rattling bones. 

“I got you, Edgelord,” he murmurs, bending close enough to share the next breath Edge takes before their mouths finally touch. It’s so tame it’s almost obscene. There isn’t even a hint of tongue, no sloppy wetness or animal groans. It’s a chaste meeting of teeth-on-teeth, and there’s no doubt at all that it’s the tipping point that pushes Edge into climax with a muffled, ragged groan that’s caught and cradled between Sans’s palms.

It’s even more outrageous that only a few short soulbeats afterwards, Red is reaching down to tear his shorts out of the way and madly jerking himself off, coming desperately into his own hand. The heat of his come feels like a profane brand, the mark of undeniable proof that he just got off to the gentlest, most vanilla make-out session he’s ever seen in his life. He feels dirty and faintly horrified.  _ What the ever-loving fuck. _

Even Edge looks embarrassed, as he damn well should. He looks down at himself, his undisturbed clothing that is nonetheless showing a dark stain spreading out from the beltline and across the crotch of his jeans. “As sorry as I am to interrupt your current endeavor, you’ll have to excuse me. I need a moment to clean up.”

Sans is beaming, thoroughly pleased with himself. There’s no mockery in the bright smile he gives Edge as he slides off his lap, giddily brushing himself off. “It’s fine. I was mostly done anyway.”

Edge arches a brow at Sans, who looks only slightly more rumpled than usual despite the warm blue flush across his cheekbones. The look in Edge’s sockets is of banked heat and dark promises, but all he says is, “We’ll see if that holds true when I return.”

He leaves with his head held high, which is an impressive feat for someone who just came in their pants like a teenager. Red is a moment too slow to put his own cock away before Sans skewers him with a look that’s much more insidious than the one he gave Edge, full of smugness and knowing. He ambles over, hands in pockets, easy as you please.

“So, what did you think?” Sans asks, and for a moment Red hates knowing that no matter how much of his reaction he tries to hide, it’s already too late. Whatever he was aiming for, Sans has already seen it on his face. The best he can do is bluster with a half-hearted shrug, pulling his shorts back up and turning his face like he’s trying to use x-ray vision on the bathroom door to watch Edge undress.

“Yeah, good show,” he offers with a golf clap for good measure. Then he lets his grin turn wolfish, predatory. “But I bet Boss’ll give me a better one when he gets back. Hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Heh.” Sans’s leer turns slightly sheepish. He scratches absently at his flushed cheek. “Almost never.”

But the echos of careful, deliberate finger holds ghosting over Red’s ribs make a liar out of Sans yet again, a sentiment that Edge would no doubt agree with. 


End file.
